


i read your book, you magnificent bastard

by a_different_equation



Series: Magnificent Bastard!AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bookstores, Cameos, Christmas, Coffee Shops, Epistolary, Falling In Love, Gay John, Humor, John Watson is a Fan of Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock Roulette, Literary References & Allusions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Metafiction, POV John Watson, Patti Smith, Poetic, Pride, Queer Themes, Romantic Comedy, Sherlock Holmes Wears Glasses, Song Lyrics, Storytelling, Writer Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: In which John Watson, recently returned from the war, buys a book in Mike Stamford's bookshop and Sherlock Holmes is a famous, openly gay, crime fiction writer whose hero is in need of a partner. A starting point for more than one story.  Dear Doctor Watson:  Thank you for your input (not that I need it or ask for it.).  After spending a certain amount of time in my Mind Palace, I concede that you might not be entirely wrong. To further conduct the discussion regarding my newest book, "The Science of Seduction" and its containing only queer subtext, I would suggest a meeting at Speedy’s Café at 221 Baker Street in London, next Sunday at 7pm.  Sherlock Holmes  P.S.: Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/gifts).



> Beta read by 221bloodnun/TheSherlocked in 2018. Thanks so much!

“All I needed for the mind was to be led to new stations.

All I needed for the heart was to visit a place of greater storms.”

(Patti Smith: " _M Train"_ )

 

 

 _It should be so much easier._  
  
That is the mantra, which John Watson repeats in his head while browsing bookshelf after bookshelf. And no, that is not a reference to his actual shoulder wound, which hurts like hell. Or to his psychosomatic limp, which still feels real to him and whose pain prevents him from stepping on one of the bookshop’s ladders to have a better look at the top shelf.  
  
God forbid, he should fall!  
  
Bad enough that probably everyone in the book shop saw his direct approach to the section that read “QUEER” in big, capital letters. It should not matter, all of it, but as much as John cannot really shake off the cold from outside, he cannot switch off the voices inside his head either that not only haunt him in his sleep at night.  
  
“Can I help you...?”  
  
John almost drops the book he is currently holding.  
  
The book is a crime novel.  
  
His therapist, Ella, would probably have a word or two to say about this. He, John Watson, recently returned from the war, reading about gore and violence; but John just loves it.  
  
He always has, he always will.  
  
First, there was his childhood filled with “ _The Three Investigators”_ and “ _The Famous Five”_ . Later, in school and teenage years, John had discovered the classics by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Soon, there were some Edgar Wallace and James Patterson novels throwing in the mix. John will freely admit to have watched some “ _Midsummer Night’s Murder”_ on the telly during his university days, too.  
  
Then, for five long years, John was a soldier wishing for a minute to spare for fiction.  
  
Now, back in London, John has far too much time.  
  
It was the good memories that led John here to this bookshop, ‘The Bard’. Of Christmas times and book gifts from parents who were still alive. Instead of staring at his mobile, a gift from his sister Harry, who will never send the text:

 

  
_Just come back, I was thinking._  
_Live with Clara and me. Have a home again._  
_You have been gone long enough._  
_Just come back._  
  
_I will stop drinking; I will wash your clothes, Johnny._  
_We will read the stories as we used to do when we were young._  
_Eager to solve the mystery._

  
**John H. Watson has to write his own story (again).**  


  


And the bookshop owner – Mike Stamford, he introduces himself just a minute in – tries.

Book after book is picked up from the shelves. He checks for John on the internet. Here a blurb, and maybe this first page, and is that front cover not promising, and Mike can absolutely remember a customer who loved that short story, and…

  
  
_Five long years was John a soldier in his Majesty Army._  
_Dreaming of another country, another fight._  
_Now he is learning to walk on his own again._  
  
_Without his brothers in arms,_

_without his commanding officers voice,_

_without the gunfire ringing in his ears._  
  
_John was once a young man, eager and bright,_

 _dreaming of helping people, dreaming of another life._  
_He was trained in St. Bart’s, he paid his dues in the desert._  
_Now, after five long years, John is learning to walk on his own again._  
  
_It was not his fault, being shot in the shoulder._  
_It is not his fault that he cannot forget the war._

 _It is not his fault that he cannot walk without a cane._  
  
_It is not his fault, but it should be easier._  
_It should be easier_  
_to walk without chains._  


  
  
John is resigned to leaving the bookshop without a new story; to saying a brief “Ta, mate” to Mike, to nod and to make a not too-pathetic exit.  
  
Then Mike breaks his train of thoughts.  
  
“Oh, how could I forget? There is a new book, mate. He is an acclaimed writer. The novel is part of a series. He works with Scotland Yard occasionally. The creator is openly gay. Might be right up your street. Sherlock Holmes, have you heard of him?”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
John buys the book.  
  
He starts reading almost immediately when he gets home from ‘The Bard’. He’s just removed his outerwear, put the kettle on, and then, with a favourite mug of milky Earl Grey tea and some biscuits, John H. Watson enters the world created by Sherlock Holmes.  


Only some paragraphs in, John discovers that the writing is more on the scientific than the fictional side, but John is a doctor, so he had his share of academic texts over the years.  
There is an alarming number of details. John forgets how many types of tobacco ash are mentioned instantly, but that a publishing company let it in is a bit mind-boggling.

There are eyeballs in a microwave and thumbs in a fridge; a bit different to his bare walls, the IKEA furniture, his favourite mug from med school days, the second hand mobile and old laptop. John’s illegal handgun in the desk, however, might fit exactly in this ominous 221b Baker Street.

Only minutes later, John giggles aloud at the visual of a wall both used as a shooting range and a white board for case files (“Bored”. And is not that an excuse?).    


John meets the detective’s brother, who is some kind of omnipotent spy, a man who refers to his jobs as “minor work for the government” and detests “leg work”. For a minute, John thinks about some inside joke related to James Bond’s “M”. Nevertheless, even the protagonist’s motto seems to be that there is no such thing as coincidence (“The universe is rarely so lazy” – and would not been that a great a book title?), John will take a guess, and say that the writer is not well accustomed to popular culture.  


Together, they face the antagonist.  
  
The Napoleon of Crime.

The spider in the web.

The virus in the data.

Mr. James Moriarty.  
  
John has no idea how Sherlock Holmes managed it to create a villain that is scary, but sexy as fuck, in equal measure. And funny! His mobile tone is “Staying Alive” (and John is going to blame Sherlock Holmes for cracking up every time he will hear it in the future). John is not sure if Moriarty is more obsessed with guns or suits or shoes (out of human skin, WTF).  
John can almost hear the sing-song-voice with the hint of an Irish accent. The changes from almost blasé (“People will die” in Sherlock’s voice) to manic screaming (“This is what people do” in Moriarty’s). The nightmarish promises of the villain's “I will burn the heart out of you” and the cold-hearted retort of the protagonist’s “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”  


And this is the point when John cracks.  
  
Because seriously? What an utter bullshit.  


John can only snort out aloud. Which might not be the wisest thing to do on public transport during London’s rush hour. John is on the way back to his bedsit in a horrible part of the city. Another rejection is in his pocket, because even if all the clinics are British polite, they still are not willing to hire a doctor with an intermittent tremor in his hand. John cannot really blame them.

Anyway, he is beaten up and bruised, and this Sherlock Holmes person is like addiction.

Yet, John feels the need to apologize to the other passengers on the train who looks at him as if he, John Watson, is the lunatic.  


Because to be really honest, and John is far too gone to lie to himself at this point --- Mike Stamford’s recommendation is probably the best thing that happened to him in quite some time, and it might be pathetic, but John Watson is sure that this writer, this Sherlock Holmes, has saved him.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Therefore, when this particular train has left the station, so to speak, John gives up pretending.  
  
He wishes he could share the flat with this lunatic and that they had a landlady who would repeatedly remind them that she is not their housekeeper, yet still brings up tea and biscuits to their flat (“But just this once, mind you”). He would prefer to not called an idiot (but most people are), and he wishes to hear the stammered sentence addressed at him (“That thing that you… that was… good”). John Watson has no idea what a “conductor of light” supposed to be but he wishes to be a loyal and brave companion to the detective, one, that takes no shit either. To be “the one feature of interest”, oh, that sounds exciting! To hear “You, John Watson, you keep me right”, oh, hell yes, it would be just the two of us against the rest of the world, and John Watson is eager to see more. He wishes he could run through dark alleys with him, the detective ahead, shouting the directions and John, his gun in hand, eager and ready, following him (“Come on John, we’re losing him!”).  
  
He wishes he could blog about their adventures, instead of the “Nothing ever happens to me”.  
  
He wishes he could meet the characters, chat with police inspector and chide the forensics team for their oversight of the detective’s brilliance (“Fantastic!”). Even the thought of entering a morgue seems exciting now.  
  
And the most, John wishes the best for the detective, which is definitely pathetic.  


John knows that none of it is real.

No one could be that clever, no life could be that exciting, and no man could be like this (whatever that is).

 

It might be projecting but John senses a loneliness in the protagonists life, hidden under all those brilliant speeches and some a bit not good actions.  


So, John wishes for the next best thing because Sherlock Holmes is the writer, while he, John Watson is just a reader (and maybe a fan): A partner for the detective.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
John does not think about how this anonymous partner might appear, what this mysterious detective looks like.

 

Because that is one of the mysteries about the mystery novel (and is that not a pun, bad, John knows it but he has always had a special sense of humour): the narrator tells the stories, case after case, but about himself?

 

That one element remains a secret.  
  
Sherlock Holmes, the writer, gives no clue to the detective’s past, his looks, his fears or hopes and dreams. He does not even give him a name.  
  
The hero of the story remains a blank space.  
  
Therefore, it should not come as a surprise that John imagines an underlining story.  
  
He is a storyteller, after all.  
  
John’s blog might not be a hit story these days, but he is a queer man, and has read many works of fiction in his life. He, Dr. John H. Watson, former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is a storyteller and he bloody knows when there is an untold story waiting to unfold.  


Then nothing happens.  


John is fuming.  
He is angry.  
He is raging.  
  
He is...contacting the writer via email.  
  
Because  
THAT  
is so  
NOT ON.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:  
  
I am writing you in regard to your last novel, “ _The Science of Seduction”_ . I will not lie; it was not what I was expecting. It was in equal measure better and worse.  
  
Better, because your attention to detail really amazed me. There was such a vivid portrayal of the casework along with the highlight, of course, the final problem: the man versus the myth. Especially the parts concerning the field of forensic science spoke – in my opinion – from a great amount of research or even a professional background. Moreover, how thrilling was the chase through London’s underground! You got me hooked up – please excuse my language – from the first stakeout.  
  
However, the protagonist’s claim that the work is all that matters…That is some bullshit (and no, I will not apologize for that!). That is the part, which I would label with “worse”, or in your words “a bit not good”. Because, seriously?

 

  1. The title of your novel, which is not “ _The Science of Deduction_ ” because it is not a scientific paper. It is not only a crime story, because then you might have titled it like the classic detective story “ _The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes_ ” (Do you pick your pseudonym in honour of his legacy?). It has heavily implied that there is a double meaning. “Names are important”, as you write somewhere. Therefore, you promised at least sex, maybe even a romance, and as far as I can see it, you did not deliver. That is so not on, mate.
  2. I read your foreword about “A story about a detective rather than a detective story”. That is a great leitmotif, by the way. However, Mr. Sherlock Holmes: that is not the story I have been reading. Moreover, you seem to be a far too intelligent to overlook all the evidence. It is there, I am not seeing things like your protagonist in Dartmoor (Yes, I loved this hybrid with Science Fiction. I have been a fan of the genre since I first stumbled over “ _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Galaxy_ ”. Have you read it or maybe you watched the movie?). Therefore, you might be writing that rubbish of “I don’t have a heart” and “sentiment” (seriously, who says that anyway?) but your protagonist? He is not a hero, or better: he is one, but that is not the focus of your narrative, it is the human with a heart. Fight me on that. I am ready.
  3. I know that you are an openly gay man. So why are you not writing it? I cannot be the first to tell you that representation matters. Do you know that I actually bought your book by sheer stroke of luck, after I had seen dozens of so-called queer crime stories? Do you know why I did not buy them? Because I am fed up with them. When I was younger, I had to look for queer subtext, and because of the genre of the crime novel, there was the best place to find it. I am older now, I have had my share of personal experience (yes, romantically, yes, sexual), and I will not accept second best. One line haunts me in your story: “I demand you speak”; I demand that you speak about the formerly abominable things; I demand that you bring the first description of your protagonist to life “He’s a queer one”; I demand that you speak up.



  
Maybe it is not wise, but I never claimed to be wise, and I am so angry now that I don't care anyway. When I am seduced, when I am encouraged to play a game, when I hear heavily sexual lines that are far from subtle, then I expect sex.  
  
To sum it up: Your story is written brilliantly; the novel is truly unique, highly entertaining and intellectually stimulating for the reader, but it lacks queer romance and explicit sex.  
  
Yours sincerely,  
  
Dr. John H. Watson  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Dear Doctor Watson:  
  
Thank you for your input (not that I need it or ask for it).  
  
After spending a certain amount of time in my mind palace, I concede that you might not be entirely wrong. To further conduct the discussion regarding my newest book, “ _The Science of Seduction_ ”, and its containing only queer subtext, I would suggest a meeting at Speedy’s Café at 221b Baker Street in London, next Sunday at 7pm.  
  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
P.S.: Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Sherlock Holmes is too late.  
  
John’s eager looks at his watch, every ten seconds or so, confirmed what he already suspected: Sherlock Holmes had no intentions of meeting him. The story seems too good to be true anyway. An email to a writer (a relatively famous one to boot) and he, John H. Watson, of all people, received not only a reply, but also an invitation to discuss his findings with him.

  
It might be the season of giving but John was not a child anymore who believes that there is such thing as a Christmas wish come true on the holidays. John had been six when he found out that the magic of Christmas were his parents. Now, more than three decades later, they are long gone. Anyway, John had gotten one miracle: When he was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan, John had prayed, “Dear God let me live”. That this wish had been granted was probably enough for setting the record straight.

 

At Speedy’s, the intended meeting point for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the holiday season is in full spirit. John can barely make out a spot that is not cluttered with Christmas decoration. There are figurines of angels and shepherds, maybe a dozen different versions of Santa Claus (including female and some highly racy one, if you ask John), some snowmen, a group of a reindeer family, and candles, candles, candles. All over the visual elements lays the smell of Christmas, enhanced tenfold because of the setting of a coffee shop.  
  
They offer Christmas specials: vanilla cinnamon latte, hot chocolate with marshmallows, some salty caramel cappuccino, and if you are adventurous, you can try them all out in a frozen version. The highlight is a mulled cider which smells so good, that John has been debating with himself since entering the café 10 minutes prior to their arranged time. Technically, he does not have some money to spare, on the other hand...  


“Here.”  
  
A deep baritone interrupts John’s train of thought.  
  
Before John can turn his head in the direction of the voice, a man appears in his field of vision. It is a handsome man, a bit younger than John, with dark, short curly hair, pale skin that is a bit pink because of the frosty air outside, and vivid eyes whose colour John cannot tell.

Mesmerizing eyes that are behind glasses.  
  
The stranger is wearing his coat, accompanied by a soft looking blue scarf. John can spot an expensive looking suit under it, which proves correct as the man sits down opposite from him, and graceful sheds the items: grey suit and a purple shirt which cannot be the ideal clothing for the winter, but the colour and the buttons straining from the physical appearance of the man...  
  
“Eh, what?”  
  
John does register that a mulled cider is standing in front of him; a drink that he has not ordered.

 

John Watson has seen photographs of Sherlock Holmes, - yes, he looked him up on the internet - but sitting across from him in the tiny, but charming, bustling with life and laughter, coffee shop on 221b Baker Street in London, he comes to the conclusion that they do not do him justice.

 

Because one look, and John Watson is falling.  
Fast and hard, like he’s been hit by a train.  
A train that will not stop.  
  
Like Mr. Sherlock Holmes who just grins at him as if, he can read John’s mind, full stop. Like a lunatic but a good one who enjoys the ride far too much.  
  
Who is now spilling out deductions from a crime scene he had visited earlier. Sherlock Holmes offers no announcement like on the Tube “We apologize for any inconvenience” because of the delay or expresses concern that his tale might disturb or even trigger the ex-soldier (“Afghanistan or Iraq?”). No, Sherlock Holmes is running high on adrenaline, low on sleep and nutrition, and John sits opposite of him, and with just one look - or wink - he is running with him.  
  
And while all that happened, a familiar tune might be playing, and maybe it was just his imagination ( or Mrs Hudson, the owner of the Speedy’s, their own kind of Christmas angel ) but who knows; maybe it went like this:  


  
_I was dreaming in my dreaming_  
_Of an aspect bright and fair_  
_And my sleeping it was broken_  
_But my dream it lingered near._  
  
  


Lingering are the looks, over mulled cider, appreciative and little bit teasing, shortly after. John and Sherlock are part of their own Christmas bubble, bright, shiny, and glorious. John is listening to his very own adventure story now; full of mysteries to solve, of gore and violence, of going into battle, and “The Game is on!”.  
  
Sherlock mentions that he plays the violin. Every genius needs an audience after all, and John is not intimidated, but intrigued.

 

And with every word,

every sentence,

and every minute ticking by,

John can walk,

talk,

speak,

and think a bit more without chains.

And without chains, there comes the dream (again).  


  
_A whisper, seductive and sugary-sweet, of take me now, I am here._  
_A hushed, pleading and pleasing, of pull me closer, do you understand._  
_And promises, a miracle, a wish, stay with me._  
_Come on. I understand._  
  


  
Therefore, John gives up to ask about the case of the missing sex and intimacy, and maybe (lost) love in the Work of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Because it is, and never was about the cases, was it?  
  
When someone realizes that one is part of the other’s story, that the narratives are interwoven, too neat to tear them apart, and anyway, neither of them interested in (a) reason to divide them anymore?  
  
When two men realize that they can live, and maybe love, without chains; not everywhere and anytime, but in this version, in their very own, they can change the chains for rings and walk together?  


Therefore, they smile at each other.  
  
Then they grin at each other.  
  
And maybe there is a “Dinner?” and a “Starving” exchanged, which are more than just words, and more than just an invitation for one shared meal at the end of a long walk.  


They hold hands when they leave the café.  
  
Smiling, and grinning, and so alive.  


 

  
**Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.** ****  


 

 _And no one can stop them because the night belongs to lovers._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A year later.

 

The city is full of light and laughter. The temperature dropped over the last few days. Now, when John Watson is walking to the bookshop, he can see his breath in the frosty air. He forgot his gloves, so he is in a hurry to finally get out of the cold, and enter the warm and cozy shop.

 

‘The Bard’ is still the independent bookstore John remembers from last year. It is the unassuming house, greyer from the outside, the worn-down facade as if it had seen some great tragedies, and faced some big storms.

When entering ‘The Bard’ with its cracking wooden floors, it is as if the stage is set, and the curtain rises to the newest adventures. There are still the ladders on which you can climb up and down. There are still towers of books, still waiting for a reader, be they be a critic, be they be a fan.

It has been a year, and John is sure that there is no such thing as an index in ‘The Bard’. The shelves have telling names, instead of genres and labels; books are not in alphabetical order or sorted after colour schemes or size.

 

And John loves it.

Mike still owns ‘The Bard’. If it would be possible, he is even more cheery than last year. He spots John almost immediately. John is not even sure how Mike manages to recognize him. John has been so busy the last year, privately and professionally, that he had not made it even for a quick chat.

 

However, maybe that is exactly the spirit of bookshops, and fiction in general -- of love and kindness: the open hearts and making a home, for you, for me, for everyone. It might seem impossible to some, infantile for a few, but it’s its own kind of magic, for many.

 

“John. How’re you doing?”

“Good. Great, actually. But Mike, as much as I like to catch up with you, I am kind in a hurry, so: can you recommend me another queer crime story?”

“You know, it seems like fate. Because guess what? The writer, Sherlock Holmes, the queer one, whose book you bought last year…He has just published another. His detective got a name now and a partner, can you imagine? He even tuned up the sex and romance; a tad racy if you believe some of the reviews.”

 

_Now, a year later,_

_John has learned to walk without chains._

_To talk without chains,_

_to breathe without chains,_

_to live and to love without chains._

 

So now, a year later, it is easy to say: “Thanks Mike. I knew that it been a queer love story all along.”

 

  
  
THE END

**Author's Note:**

> The story heavily quotes, and re-writes lyrics by Patti Smith: “Power to the people”, “Because the night” and “Without chains”. And, of course, “M Train”. Which means that all parts in italic are indeed remixes of Patti Smith's genius. All I did was to rework it for John's story. Yes, including "It should be so much easier" aka the first sentence.
> 
> For all the quotes from BBC Sherlock, thanks to Adriane De Vere. 
> 
> The title is a combination of Patti Smith’s memoir (“M Train”) and the track from OST of Dr. Strange, “Reading is elementary”. As the movie and its comic book series its based on, introduces the concept of alternative universes, (canon) divergences and mirror dimensions, I thought it fitting to use it for a story that remixes canon and offers another way of how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet and fall in love. Also, we all know, that "elementary, my dear Watson", is not part of canon but Gilette's legacy ;) The power of transformative works!
> 
> Thank YOU for reading. Kudos are love, comments are very welcome.


End file.
